The Mistake
by SheerForce
Summary: When a strange man appears before Baron Praxis, he is at first hesitant to trust him. However, opinion is a matter of principle easily swayed by the right influences. Man is infernally liable to make errors in judgement, and hatred, like fire, tends to scald those who kindle it.
1. Chapter 1

Hello there! Pleased to be reading my first ever fanfic. 3 I had this idea of a crossover between the Marvel U & the Jak & Daxter universe for a very long time. Initially, I had my misgivings about the idea, so that is why it is only now that I'm actually putting pen to paper on the idea (so to speak, ha-ha).

I originally intended for the first portion of this 'aul speal' to be a self contained one-shot, but later thought to add it in as a kind of prequel to the events that take place later in the chapter. So I apologise for the random change in narrative~

Thanks again for taking time out to glance at this. It's all kinds of appreciated. 3

One fire burns out another's burning,  
One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.

-William Shakespeare

Drip drip drip.  
Splat.  
Drip drip drip.  
Splat.  
It is said that the worst kinds of torture come in the subtlest of forms. There's no need to go gouging out finger nails, cover a person's mouth with a cloth and proceed to water board them, or go the movie clich route and administer a series of painful shocks for each noncompliance. Nope, merely get yourself a leaky tap and a chair in a dark room and you're good. And, if such a room just happened to be located in a massive high security futuristic jail, so be it!  
Drip drip drip.  
Boy, how someone ought to fix that tap!  
Going back to the torture thingie, though. Yup, there's no need for extremes. A leaky tap. A chair. A locked, dark room. That's it. Heck, the only thing missing from this simplistic picture, if you wish to really take it to the higher tiers of endless pain you wild thaaaaing is a blind fold. Why? Total sensory deprivation. Sure, whoever you tag 'n' bag's still got their hearing, smell, taste, touch. But what's the point of them all if you can't see? What good is hearing if you can only record that annoying, constant dripping? What of touch if all you can feel is the metallic shackles immobilizing your arms and legs? Of smell and taste? And let's not forget. No sight.  
Drop, splat.  
Robbed of these preternatural factors, these base, innate abilities, one would go insane, come completely unhinged from the world solely because of a tiny, consistent leak.  
Crazy.  
But it had it's upsides too, at least for the torturer.  
Can't see.  
Drip.  
Drop.  
Stuck in an endless oblivion of black.  
Drip.  
Drop.  
A scuffling of feet, a twist of head and roll of shoulders. A low, prolongued groan.  
Ah-hah! There's life yet in the detained!  
Welcome back to your skewered slice of Hell in'a Cell, Mr. Prisoner.  
Sorry it isn't much to brag about.  
Drip drip. Drip drop.  
You passed out for a good while there. Got certain people worried. Not that any one in this god forsaken place gave the slightest unsavory damn about you, Mr. Prisoner.  
Drip.  
A strain, a twist of fixed hand.  
A fruitless effort.  
Beneath blinded 'lids, you grimace, a terribly toothy snarl. It's no good, you figure, so you decide to backtrack. Recollect your steps. And try against all the odds to piece together the turn of events that have led to you winding up in this terrible, terrible place. But the events of the past day allude you. You try to roll your head in annoyance, but a sharp, throbbing pain darts along one side of your face, and you assume you've been bludgeoned, at some point, which resulted in short term memory loss. But thankfully, everything beyond yesterday you can recall. You can remember who you are, the adventures you've had, your friends, allies, and enemies.  
When it hits you.  
You've been here before.  
How hauntingly familiar it must be to you, Mr. Prisoner. Not the the robbed sight or faulty water appliances.  
But the restraints.  
The shackles, hindering your arms and legs.  
Merely the thought of being imprisoned once more is almost enough to set your blood a boil. It's a thought you never guessed, never even reconsidered the chances of happening again. Not since proving your worth, countless times.  
Yet reality's often a pain in the unmentionables and for all your undaunted skill and prowess, you're locked it again.  
Drop drip, drop drip.  
Incarcerated on false pretences, no doubt.  
Drip drop, drip drop.  
Hmm. Sounds familiar.  
However, compared to the last time you roughed it after becoming the newest lab rat, this time you've no idea who is calling the shots. Pulling the strings. Ticking you the heck off.  
Drop.  
For the love of Chris, that's annoying, bordering on provoking. Someone really needs to-  
Hang on.  
Provoking.  
That's it...!  
In your mind's eye, the storm clouds clear and disperse, as you grasp the intent of your unknown jailers.  
Of course. Why else would anyone have the faintest of interests in you.  
Drip...  
You take a deep breath, smirk nervously. You came to know the meaning of hatred and vendettas in a hell hole such as this, if not in the same place. Barely of teenage years, your first words after remaining tongue-tied for so long were to wish death upon the one who changed you, equipped you with those nasty ivories and instilled within you a fiery rage and penchant for violence to match the hordes of your greatest enemies.  
Drop...  
But it'd mean giving into the interests of your unseen foes.  
You adjust your posture, best as possible.  
You feel that dark, sinister eco build within you, you draw on it...  
In a single, frenzied burst of arcing energy and crackling lightning, the chair gives way, your shackles and restraints break off like shattered glass as power oozes from every inch of your terrifying being, bouncing off the walls, striking the ceiling, leaving no corner of the dark room untouched. Including the sink. The dark eco coiled around that infernal sink and faulty tap, a tentative snake smothering its quarry, until it exploded in a shower of sparks.  
In the silence of the dark room, your blindfold slips off.  
The tap is finished, the torture no more.  
Yet in the pits of your blank, soulless eyes, left by your submission to power over shrewdness, not a flicker of recognition regarding who you are, who you were, remained.  
And somewhere beyond the confines of the dark room, down the varying corridors and turns lingered the malicious sound of cruel, triumphant laughter.

*****  
"Kill everything!"  
Ordered Logan as he steeled himself for battle, bravely leading the charge as he boldly faced the regiment of Purifier soldiers wielding various types of firearms and weapons on open ground. They commenced their attack in response to his command, quickly laying down a biting salvo of lead and pain. The bullets, of course, didn't harm someone with his incredible knack for healing even the most grievous of wounds. This didn't apply to the rest of his team, however, a rag-tag group of assassins, mercenaries and plain old killers, originally brought together to deal with threats of global and personal scope before they went on to become a major problem in future years.  
Holding off to wait for the enemy to come hankering towards him, Logan mentally struck each member in turn off the roster:  
There was Deadpool, the merc with a hell of a mouth, who could as much talk his targets to death as well as neatly slice their heads off.  
Archangel, the man who rained hell from above with flechettes of cruel steel and agony from wings of gleaming, techno-organic steel.  
The beautiful Psylocke, the team's resident telepath and who had a whole bag of tricks leaped and stepped about briskly, elegantly, a butterfly in the body of a killer.  
Completing the motley crew came the mysterious Fantomex, a man whose secrets practically had secrets, his arms jerking and moving with the kickback of each full magazine he unloaded into the bodies of his enemies, eagerly returning their fire in spades.  
That left Logan. Wolverine. James Howlett. The mutant who'd seen it all, lived through most of it. The one who waged a constant war with his own instincts let alone his enemies and chequered memories, recollections that even he thought twice to assess their clarity. People had taken pride in screwing with his head before.  
And here he is now, fronting the latest incarnation of the mutant wetworks team, X-Force, where killing is compulsive, but not always moral. He'd laugh at any other time. But not now. Not when bullets were zinging past his head, peppering him more than a few times in his legs and legs, and riddled his chest. Growling low, Logan ducked and flashed his claws, skewering the nearest Purifier to him before straightening, turning, and then driving home his other set of claws clean through the meaty shoulder of a second soldier. Hapless cries of men screaming, their macho countenances crumbling under the efficient force of the team's murderous prowess. Dropping the two slain soldiers, Logan side-stepped out of the path of a charging Purifier equipped with a strange looking gun, and slipped behind him. A fast backhand swipe across the back of the neck decked the gun-ho soldier, permanently. Another slash destroyed his weird weapon.  
The fight had only been 10 minutes old and already enemies were dropping like flies, an armed contingent 50 strong or more quickly whittled down to single digits. Soon desperation was spreading through the ranks of those left standing. Deadpool hacked away with his katana, harping endlessly on about a ludicrous story involving a peanut jar and a very drunk bear, Archangel dive bombed the few brave enough to make a stand by themselves, away from the frigid safety of the others. Psylocke occasionally stooped to probe the minds of the fallen and barely conscious, searching for information that may prove useful for the team to be aware of.  
The combined efforts of the group had reduced the enemy's numbers to a mere four. Snapping his head to the right, Logan roared to Fantomex to fall in beside him and together they engaged the last of the soldiers, taking their lives with slashes and bullets.  
The battle won, with the enemy dead at their feat, the remainder of the team filled in around Logan and Fantomex, as a tentative calm besieged the plain of battle.  
"And aaaallll the pew-pews went bye-bye~! Heheeee."  
"Shut up, Wade."  
Logan glared at Deadpool, then eased his gaze and looked around at the others. "The hard part's done. Now for the rescue. Bets, have you found out where they've taken him?"  
Elisabeth 'Betsy' Braddock, aka Psylocke, brushed away strands of her simmering dark purple hair, then pressed the tips of her fingers to her temple, shut her eyes, and focused. "In a holding cell at the back of the complex. It's unguarded."  
"Good. Let's go."  
Waving the team forward, X-Force climbed the ramp into the building. Desiring not to hang around for too long, they briskly passed through the building, Psylocke lingering near the front of the group to guide the way. After a few twist and turns and stretches of long corridors, X-Force arrived at a heavily fortified door.  
Plunging three of his claws into it, Logan sliced it apart, then kicked the door inward, allowing some ambient light from outside to filter in and illuminate the cramped room.  
Sat with his legs crossed, gaunt and slightly more emancipated than before, was Gateway, the aged mutant with the ability to teleport others through the use of wormholes. Placed in front of his feet was the special bullroarer he'd often twirl above his head when generating said tunnel to anywhere other than where he was.  
"Gateway, old friend. Time to go." Logan's voice was surprisingly soft and reassuring. The old timer took this chance to clamber unsteadily to his feet, stick in hand. His gaze was uniformly distant, glazed, yet almost sympathetic, and directed at Logan. It seemed as if he was sorry for some unknown act.  
Logan offered his hand, moved further into the cramped room which now he realised smelled of offal and gone-off from the rest of the team, back to the door, attention for all but Gateway, Logan couldn't have seen what was to happen next, regardless of experience.  
"Been a long time, Dad! Sorry this visit's going to be a short one!"  
Familiarity kicking in, Logan whirled around, arms raised, and sighted the source of the interving voice.  
"Daken! What are you up to now-"  
As Logan tried to speak, back in front of him Gateway raised an arm, bullroarer within grasp, and rapidly spun his fingers, causing a fierce gale to erupt in the room, signalling the creation of one of his portals through time and space.  
It opened up directly beneath Logan's feet.  
"But I'll be seeing you again real soon!"  
As Logan's footing began to waiver, while the portal dragged him downwards, the last sounds he could remember hearing was the chiding guffaws of his son's triumphant laughter, the hastened outcries of X-Force reacting too late, and the mental telepathic condolences of a tired old man withered from the world and its forever vexing troubles.

*****  
"Alert, alert! Prisoner escaped quarantine! Extremely dangerous!"  
Alarms whine at deafening levels, warning lights bathe each corridor in halting red. Soon every vacant passageway became awash with dozens of Krimzon Guards encased in their distinctive red armour and brandishing various types of shock and blaster weapons. They swarmed the level in question with a hurried goose foot march, swiftly sealing off immediate exits to eliminate the escapee prisoner's chances of busting out of the place. Almost at the exact same moment, that same prisoner wedged its way through the remains of what had been the reinforced door to the cell that had imprisoned it, and stepped out into the walkway, thick with guards.  
As dark eco sparked and forked outwards in all directions from its lumbering mass, a dehumanised Jak stared straight ahead with eyes of endless black, devoid completely of all sanity, all emotion, except that of rage. Instinctively, the KG took a precautionary step backwards; none of them at this moment in time had ever witnessed such a demonic sight before. Mouth curling into the formations of a muted snarl, significant amounts of electrified dark eco rolled off of the white monster and struck at a few nearby guards, then the beast itself was up and moving, charging straight into the opposition. Fingers curled into nasty claws as they danced across the surface of the KG's pesky armour, the beast easily shaking off their putrid attempts to shock and blast it, capable of ignoring most forms of pain, for what good were they to a monster like him. This temporary resistance to harm afforded him the chance to really rack up a kill count, wildly reaping great swaths of damage through the guard's ranks, brutally tearing apart that resilient armour through a series of repeated strikes, pummelling the few who refused to roll over and die.  
In this frenzied state, Jak was a force of unparalleled ferocity, a god, even.  
Hoisting the last guard left alive off his feet, Jak's ebony claws dug into his neck, drawing blood and causing a vast amount of untold damage. The guard squirmed once, then went limp.  
Dropping the guard, Jak stood on the spot for a while, taking deep, calming breaths. Then suddenly, the sound of a gun being fired erupted from behind, and the next thing Jak felt was something pierce his neck, followed by a zap of strength, and collapsed. Sprawled on the floor, his paroxysm finished, Jak reverted back to normal, yellow-green hair and all. Unable to move, all he could see was a pair of feet pad up next to him, legs bending at the knee as the weapon of his downfall came within sight, coupled by the eerily familiar voice of a man he previously thought dead.  
"Sweet dreams, eco freak."  
Then Erol reloaded his weapon, stood up, aimed, and fired a second time.

*****  
Watching all the commotion occurring in the prison from the safety of his tall palace, Baron Praxis frowned intensely at the flickering screen sat before him. He carefully observed the footage that showed the...creature...easily lay waste to some of his best men. As self proclaimed ruler of Haven, seizing the throne by brute force a short time ago, it had never crossed his mind to delve in any experimentation practices on prisoners such as Jak. Not yet, anyway. For this Praxis was still new in his steed, and the metal head threat had not yet become a spiralling problem he couldn't pay off. And he wasn't dead, either. No, in a strange twist of fate, he had learned all about the dark future in store for him. Plus, the jarring news that he'd be six foot under in a few years time, and how this figure on screen, the warped, ghastly visage of a man turned monster, which he helped create, was partly to blame for his downfall came as a huge wake up call for him.  
When the prisoner had finished his massacre, he looked on as he teetered and fell over, then witnessed Erol, his right hand man and commander of the Krimzon Guard, loom into view to lay Jak low even further.  
At this, the baron exhaled sharply, and turned on the spot.  
"Alright, you have my attention. I'll hear what you have to say."  
After a few seconds, a figure sat opposite him stirred with motion, settled the cup he'd been holding on the table, then rose to his feet and strode over to the Baron.  
"My dear Baron, I'm humbled to hear that. Although, for all you know, I could still be lying..." A soft chuckle escaped the stranger's lips. He was dressed in a strange attire, abnormal even for this culture; a purple shirt, crimson tie, black slacks and sneakers. The inklings of a large, tribal-like tattoo that covered the left half of his chest, back, and snaked down along his left arm, was scarcely visible under the collar folds of his shirt and rolled up sleeves. A black mohawk lined his skull, and he had the kind of countenance about his face that suggested he had an hidden agenda all of his own. Daken, a bastard dog in name as well as physical conduct. He had a nasty way of worming deep into the minds of others, mostly to toy with their emotions for his own selfish gain.  
"Well, I said I'd promised you a glimpse of the deadly enterprise you would pursue years hence, in hopes of initiating a programme to create the ultimate band of soldiers in order to win a one-sided war not in your favour, I believe." Daken paused at that moment as the Baron scowled irritably. He didn't like to entertain thoughts of failure, particularly if they inevitably resulted in his death.  
"Cut to the chase! I've got a war to wage!" Urged the Baron.  
"And a war you will loose." Reminded Daken. "But I've come to offer you a wild card, a dark house as it were. I can guarantee he'll forge a path of destruction to eclipse even that of this monster." Daken gestured to the screen. By now it showed Jak being hauled off to a new location, unceremoniously dragged along by a pair of Krimzon Guard clutching an arm each, tentatively. Clearly fearful that Jak could stir at a moment's notice and renew his trail of carnage.  
"So you say, but I would be a fool not to take you at your word." The baron shot back.  
"Of course." Daken agreed. "That's why I have a suggestion - If you're willing to hear it?"  
"Go on."  
"I was thinking of holding an exhibition match in the prison, between this Jak character and the wild card I have to offer, as a show of faith."  
The baron took this into consideration carefully. Jak was difficult enough to keep restrained - a testament to his future self's ability to pick the choicest of crop for experimentation - so what were to happen if he pitted the eco freak against someone of matching, maybe even championing skill? True, he could theoretically obtain a rouge to aid in his warfare campaign, do to him what he would do to a younger Jak, years from now, henceforth changing history, warping the eventual outcome. Win, rather than disastrously loose. Live, rather than fall.  
And he always strove to win, by whatever means.  
"Then you'll get your match."  
"Excellent-" Daken was about to clap when Praxis interrupted him.  
"But I want to see this man you speak of beforehand. Today."  
"...Yes, that can be arranged..." Strangely, Daken's attitude changed, his expression growing morbid and serious. "I will start making preparations now. If you'd excuse me...?"  
With an approving nod from the baron, Daken turned away and headed for the exit. Before he got there though, someone on the other side had opened the door and stepped through. The person had been Erol, and when he took his attention away from the door to look ahead he found that brooding man, that schemer, that ghost. Erol's gaze locked with Daken's momentarily, and one could swear they saw fire erupt in that visual conflict. They were, in their own, cruel way, as bad as the other, deceivers, obsessors wanting all yet having none.  
Then the door closed, and all was silent once more.  
"Somehow, I have a gut feeling that I'm going to regret this." Confessed the baron.

*****  
Several hours after the incident in the prison.  
*****

Logan was falling. Circling, spiralling, slipping through the meticulous web of reality, time and space, a vortex of converging streams, of flashing lights and portals to other worlds where one alternate decision held a powerful influence over the outcome of certain events. As the poignant mutant fell through that cauldron of chaos, in a flash it was all over, replaced by nothing. How long Logan was out cold for, he couldn't say - heck, he could've been unconscious for five, ten, minutes, even an hour or two for all he knew! But one thing he couldn't mistake was the clicking of guns being loaded in eerie unison, a domino of slight mechanisms that could spur a sluggish and feeble man to action in a handful of seconds.  
Hauling himself erect, Logan spread his arms wide, a loud growl rumbling deep at the back of his throat.  
Six foot-long blades of brilliant adamantium steel lanced forth into the frosty air with a frightful 'snikt' sound.  
"What the hell is going on!" Blasted Logan, glaring over at the opposition.  
Standing in a row a few feet away from him were a group of Krimzon Guards arranged in single file. One guard stood a part from the others. If one looked close enough they could see, despite all the armour and the terrifying mask, they'd find his brown hair to be tied back in dreadlocks.  
"You're under arrest." Stated the guard, his voice altered and amplified by a device covering his mouth and chin. He hadn't drawn any visible weapons, but the line of fire-power at his back was a comforting thought. It all felt wrong, to call a seemingly innocent man out like this. Yet, orders were orders, so he made like any good little shoulder would in his position and carried them out. He was to assemble a group of KG in an area recently lost to the metal heads. Dubbed 'Dead Town' by the survivors of the incident, only last week had it been a part of the city. Then a battle broke out, and mid-way though it, the baron ordered his forces to retreat, leaving anyone outside the newly constructed barrier to die. The 'Soldier' tried to protest, claiming this to be a foolish tactic when victory was so near at hand. But again, orders were orders, so he played along, despite his better judgement.  
The screams of the dying plagued his dreams for five nights.  
"You've got to be kidding me, bub!" Logan took a step forward. The corpse of guards shuffled back the same distant, There was something about the enemy's claws that had them all but a bit frightened.  
But the 'Soldier' didn't move, failingly to even flinch by the runt's advance.  
Instead a cold sweat slithered down his spine. He took a precautionary breathe, voice an octave lower than before.  
"Stand. Down..."  
Logan ignored. Took another step...  
And fell down, a neat collection of five stunning darts piercing his neck.  
Off to the side, Daken came into view from beneath a large chunk of crumbling mortar and brick. As ever, a demented grin dominated his pseudonym features, tauntingly joined by a satirical bellow.  
"You're making this too easy, old man! What happened to all that unparalleled skill, that century's worth of unrivalled experience? All talk, you are! And please, the 'Best There Is'? Ha! Don't kid yourself!"  
Paralysed, barely able to move, Logan heard the voice of his son speak up. He motioned to say something, but words failed to roll off his tongue, his jaws instead moving in a looped, noiseless chatter.  
Circling his incapacitated father, a predator after his wounded prey, Daken tossed the weapon he'd used to strike down his father away and squared. Sneering, he cupped a hand around the bottom of his father's scruffy chin and turned his face toward his own, attracting the loathing, shameful gaze of the one person he wished to be acknowledge by. Repeatedly being denounced by your only living parent was a hard burden to ensure, especially when others lesser than Daken had an easier time of gaining his father's caring attention.  
"This is for all the times you took pity on me." Spat Daken into his father's face. "Take comfort in the fact that you've no allies here, none of your little X-buddies or Avenger pals to hail for help. "  
Daken shifted his weight, inhaled deeply, then leaned in close to whisper into Logan's ear.  
"So I am going to show the world the true you, put your uncaring black heart on display for the world to see and peel back the layers of falsehood encompassing what you are at the very core."

"A savage."

Drawing away, Daken stood up and said no more other than beckoning the KG over to collect his offer to the baron. The soldier directed three of his men to manhandle the mutant and load him into a nearby prison transport. Daken waited a while, then followed the procession as all the other soldiers dispersed except for 'him,' the one with the deadlocks. The brooding child shared a glance with the voiceless trooper, then walked on.

At that moment, the 'soldier's initial unease resurfaced with a jarring vengeance, as a single thought filled his mind.

This is a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

The short trip back to the prison was tensed and charged. Within the ranks of the assembled KG soldiers not a single soul uttered a word once they were airborne. Perhaps they were tired, worn down, weary even, who knows. Or maybe they secretly shared the same sentiment: delivering the new prisoner to the Baron was a mistake of the highest order.

As the airtrain swerved and and rose, the Soldier looked around at the rest of his crew; corrupt men who'd easily accept bribes as well as kill civilians on a mere whim. He found himself experiencing a rare moment of clarity; why did he still hold allegiances to the Guard, forfeit his live for the servitude of a tyrannical villain.

Perhaps it was time he got out, leave this risky business before his head ended up on a platter.

After a while, the airtrain descended and docked at its destination. The bay door whined open, and each of the soldiers got up and departed from the vehicle. 'He' was the last to exit when he saw his commander, Erol, pass by. Immediately, Erol took note of him and made adjustments to his path to offer a passing salute, all smiles and praise.

"Congrats on a job well done, Torn! You keep this up and there'll be a permanent place for you in the Guard!"

Finally, the soldier had a name.

Offering a half salute, Torn relaxed slightly, felt his weary shoulders ease and drop as that despot's diligent eye left the bay, to his relief. He reached up to his head and removed his helmet and mouth mask to reveal an intricate series of grey rectangular tattoos covering his face and ears. These were the trademarks of any recrutes who had joined the Baron's personal police/militia force.  
Torn would've liked to sign off right now, call it quits and take the rest of the evening shift off to avoid the storm he could envision brewing in the waning hours of the day. Sadly, as vile as it was, there was still work yet to be done.

*****  
Jak attempted to move, maneuver his arm and angle it just so as to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the various lights focused on him. But he barely managed the act, the familiar sensation of chains once again abasing his wrists filling him with a slight sense of dread. Not enough to shake his composure, mind you, but the fear of remembrance, of wrenching recall, left trembling limbs in its wake.

The tough concrete floor scratched at his numb knees, as he discovered through touch that his legs bowed outwards at either side of him. He wouldn't be getting up again in a hurry, after being left in this awkward position.

Guess the Guards were learning fast.

Memories came in a blur to him, and he couldn't clearly discern how he'd ended up like this. He shut his eyes for a minute, saw the snatchings of a face sporting a mohawkan haircut and a black, tribal styled tattoo.

He awakened again to the world abroad, more clueless than ever. Jak angled his head to one side, allowed his gaze to wonder in the hopes of making a discovery; when he soon spied a balcony far above, occupied solely by that same nameless man, slouched on a throne.

The same man who through means unknown managed to drag him back through time to relive this rancorous nightmare.

Jak made a personal oath to chuck that fool off the highest structure he could find when he had the chance.

*****  
Daken sank into the folds of the aristocratic velvet throne. It resembled something from a medieval castle, gilded and forged by the best of hands for the lord of the realm, meant for the powerful , the gerent, the totalitarian and the supreme. Certainly, whoever claimed this seat would experience great euphoria, basking in the respect his power and will would gather.

This imperial seat elicited thoughts of past desires, the vision that later became his mantra backed by a endless need for control. To reign over his own empire.

He briefly tasted the fruits of dominion, once. That lawless island practically fell under his control, a prime convergence point for the world's big bads - illegal item mercents, slave traders, hitmen, drug dealers, name any type of lowly criminal and they're more than likely to have flocked to his kingdom before. Madripoor, the vilest cesspit on Earth.

His reign wasn't eternal, however. Like all great kingdoms, his was destined for misfortune when he foolishly contemplated expanding his reach, took on a task only to be bested in his own field by the better player. He challenged someone who played the same cards, a mirror imagine except with decades of experience at this age old gig on his side.

He came against someone of equal measure to himself...and lost.

The little boy who felt so invincible, so untouchable as to later toy with the heroes of his world and not dare to envision some kind of reprisal. He had unintentionally been the harbinger of his own personal ruin.

This further retention of former failures cast him into ill-humours. In silent annoyance, he curled his fingers into tightly balled fists on the plush arm rests, felt the flesh at the back of his hands tighten, threatening to bleed with 'their' release - six bone claws, housed within his arms three a piece. A gift from 'dad.'

Dad. Father.  
The name stung like fire on his tongue.

How can anyone consider that hypocrite to be a father?

Disgusted, Daken's only regret was that he didn't entrap his father like this sooner, otherwise he would've killed him himself.

Suddenly, a noise emanated from his left; a door swung open and Erol appeared, hands clasped behind his back, standing to attention.

"It would be wise to move," he recommended. Daken frowned, but gathered himself up off the throne, and retired to the wall of the balcony.

The Baron entered on cue, and rightfully claimed the throne for himself, with Erol flanking him. Ignoring present company, Daken leaned on the barrier, gazed over the edge, all in time to witness Logan being manhandled by a small battery of heavily arm Guards.

As they neared the large floor up ahead, one of them shoved his father the last couple of feet. Logan stumbled, but soon recovered his balance. He turned to glower menacingly at the Baron's troopers.

No longer did hints of confusion linger in his onyxy glare. Only anger remained.

Daken smiled. Nastily. Like a child might do when they know they've done wrong. And boy was 'Daddy' sure to scold him for this.

Back up top, he heard the Baron shift in his seat, lean over the side to jab a finger into the darkness behind him. At once, a pair of KG troops appeared, pushing a small hover cache containing various haphazard weapons and mysterious devices. Turning back around, he straightened his back, squared shoulders, causing Daken to wonder if this correction to posterior was out of pride or secured by the knowledge of having a fair amount of repressive firepower so near at hand.

"Vile degenerates!" Commenced the Baron, hands appraising the ceiling. "If you've been smart enough to figure it out yet, you are going to fight each other for your own miserable lives. Win, and your life will be spared. But loose..." The Baron gently pulled a thumb in a horizontal line across his neck, illustrating his morbid words. "...Well, you do the math."

He immediately paused, and relaxed back into his seat. Sensing that all was about to get underway, Daken faced front for the final time, settling into a comfortable leaning position, brimming with expectation.

Let's see how you'll fare against someone of your own league.

*****  
Logan climbed the few steps that lead to the open floor listening to the Baron's fruitless address. Amusingly, in an incovenial way, it appeared he wasn't alone in thinking light of it, as both boy and mutant didn't wish to tolerate his blabbering.

He didn't need to be told what the score was, for it was already abundantly clear. Treading the spartan ground slowly, he made a quick pass with his eyes of the interior; Guards were posted at frequent points surrounding the elevated platform, ruling out all attempts of escape. That left himself and his fellow imprisoned, a youth roughly the same height as himself. Years his senior and yet carried some disturbingly similar baggage to himself.

Poor boy. Hate t' think what madness was done to 'im.

Distantly, he heard the Baron fall into silence, followed by a short whine of something mechanical, and the next thing he realised was his hands were free. Alleviated of imprisonment, for the time being, Logan stretched his arms, flexed his joints and shook the stiffness from his muscles and shoulders.

He heard the sound of more chains clattering to ground, and saw the person he was meant to fight take similar stock of his personal being.

How ridiculous this all seemed to the mutant, to fight for the sake of fighting. Admittedly, Logan enjoyed a good scrap himself at times, but never like this. Not under these forceful circumstances.

He kept staring at Jak until their gazes crossover, and Logan saw a kind of world weariness hollowed deep in the glassy hues of the battered warrior.

"Come on, ladies, I don't have all day!" A voice from above. The Baron.

But neither Jak nor Logan moved. Logan reasoned, much to his relief, that the man must've been of a similar mind, who also was hesitant to fight, especially for such a ruthless tyrant.

That's good. But how long would it last for?

Logan didn't know this man from Adam, never seen anyone else with such long, pointed ears until he wound up in this strange place.

In fact, now that he gave it thought, everyone he'd seen in this place had similar, elfin-esque ears. Except Daken.

Daken. His only son. Every bit the person he strived not to be, or at last tried to convince himself otherwise.

But how different were they, really? How can any killer deny the gallons of blood on his hands?

Slowly, Logan was getting comfortable with the idea that, thought originally borne of his son's endless plots to cause him great despair, perhaps at the end of it all, this is where he belonged. In a dingy, cruel prison, locked away for the more evils than heroics he carried out over the course of a century.

As he humiliatingly began to accept his fate, that's when it happened.

A small sphere, no larger than a tennis ball bounced and rolled around the space between the both of them. A mechanism clicked, and a vaporous mist poured out of the device, condensing into a thick fog that sent Logan into a coughing fit. Whatever substance the gaseous vapour was comprised of, it burnt his throat like a mild acid.

It worked a number on the mutant, whereas for the other guy...Well...

That's when everything went to hell.

*****  
Daken remained slouched over the railing after lobbing the dark eco device over the side. Both the Baron and his lessers reacted in alarm, but quietened down again when they realised what he was actually doing. Now with all pairs of eyes centred on the squirming figure in the dispersing fog, the fight could well and truly get underway.

A content smile graced Daken's face as he stood witness to the blonde prisoner make the transition from man to monster.

Increasing slightly in mass, he noticed Jak's posture crumble and double over, slightly tanned, caucasian skin faded to a inhuman, ghostly-white. Terrifyingly long, jet black claws emerged initially with a frightful slowness, then a shocking snap, as sharp as butcher's knives. An incomprehensible whine left an unhinged jaw, agape in reeling ache. Teeth sharpened to ghastly fangs, matted hair, flickering eyebrows and goatee all suffering a severe colour desaturation, fading to a monotonous dark grey.

All that was Jak the boy, the hero, the renegade, temporarily faded to smouldering ambers, replaced by a terrifying, uncontrollable force, one that was wrathful and brimmed with instilled ferocity. Who hungered to slash and hack blindly, a maelstrom of trouble.

In his eyes this boy-turned-beast entranced Daken, whom considered him the ideal portrait of an animal, removed from the limitations of human reasoning. As wild in appearance as intent. What a kick he got out of having Daddy contest against this creature, a discreet representation of the same impulses that Logan grappled daily with, only his problem was marginally less...visual.

The product of a man with a singular vision, who much to his own amusement currently sat shellshocked by the sight he had just saw in person for the first time.

To have in possession such a powerful house must've been an extreme rarity. To forge a more potent engine of destruction from the ashes of the former, and to substitute their sheepish will, with, say, his own...

No force on this Earth or the next would be capable of stopping him.

Marvelling at his own ideals, Daken fell into expectant silence when he saw the monster take a swipe at his father, and draw first blood.

*****  
It stung.

Stung like salt on a wound, the scent of a freshly cut onion to the eye. It was only the first move and already Logan was hurting, badly marked straight across the kisser, five neat rows of cuts marring his weather battered features. Blood seeped from the thin, but deep, wounds.

He thanked the gods for his healing factor, subtly kicking in to repair the damage done.

At once, Logan engaged the monster on his own terms, ignoring the throbbing pain that was close to blinding him. His silvery foe responded wildly, violently lashing out and slashing in all directions. Closely watching his movements, the mutant unsheathed his own claws and moved to intercept one of the dangerous strikes, catching the gaps between the monster's fingers inside of his claws.

The animalistic Jak tried to push forward, win the exchange to do further damage. Except Logan resisted, standing like a rock, then ducked and swept a leg beneath the monster's feet, knocking him off balance enough for Logan to attempt to jostle him to the floor.

Pinning him there, this ghastly shadow of a former self, the mutant pointed his claws at the writhing, lively creature. Adopting a listless mask, Logan corrected his aim, then plunged his claws into Jak's left side, going deep enough to emerge out the other side to touch the floor, stopping only when his knuckles touched flesh.

Jolting upwards, Jak spat up blood, eyes slamming shut in an attempt to cope with the shocking pain. Perhaps he hadn't abandoned all sense of feelings after all.

To Logan's surprise, through damage had clearly been done, the creature still bent his legs and delivered a powerful rolling kick to the mutant's gut, driving him away. Able to stand, Jak moved with the speed of a skilled predator to exploit an opening in Logan's defense as he stumbled away.

Jak came upon him sooner than expected, right fist clenched and bristling with power. He punched Logan in the chest, just under the rib cage, causing a wide shockwave to radiate outwards from the point of contact.

A way's off, he heard stray shouts and gasps, indicating that their zealous audience was just as shocked by the performance. Intimidated and fearful.

Their trepidations briefly crossed his mind, as he hurtled headlong into a wall. The surrounding Guards scattered at once, in either direction as debris rained down and covered the floor.

Breathing heavily, shoulders raising and lowering, Jak pressed a hand to the gaping wound at his side, his menacing stare never wavering from the neat hole in the wall, and the figure stirring beyond.

Struck down, but far from out. Though after being flung through a wall, this slight oversight for Logan wasn't enough to keep a good dog down, as he gradually eased himself out of the wreckage of the construction, covered in dust, battered, bruised and bleeding from a dozen wounds.

Temper starting to flare, he had managed to keep a cool head up until the present time. But for how much longer he could maintain that calm demeanour, not give into his primal urges, to give into the feral berserker dominating his heart, rendering flesh from bone and fracturing limbs.

A rumble left Logan's throat that he didn't recognise as his own. Indistinctively issuing a bold challenge, to which his silvery foe took acute heed of, and responded in kind.

Jak's eyes flashed, and, for the first time they held faint traces of...something vaguely human.

How ironic it must've seemed; the beast taking a step toward regaining what was left of his humanity, whilst the man forfeited it in an act of pure anger and slackening restraint.

Though still akin to the stuff of nightmares, Jak's momentarily pleading eyes broadcasted a simple message.

Kill me.

Aghast by this, the grating request proved enough to snap Logan out of his trance-like state, unsure what to do.

Sadly his hand was to be forced when Jak gave another one of those inhuman howls, flexed all of his fingers as that strange, purple lightning from before coiled around each digit, snaking up his arms and lancing lethality into the air. In his bunched palms, that sinister energy gathered, condensing into a tight glob of fizzing energy. Pressing his position, Jak curled his clawed hands around this mass of explosive energy, readying to strike.

It was now or never.

Swallowing his hesitation, Logan similarly stepped ahead, then broke into a fast sprint. He stopped abruptly in front of the snarling monster, saw up close the anguish that plagued his menacing features, and, out of empathy, Logan diverted his mournful look elsewhere as he delivered the finishing blow.

He felt the creature stiffen, and knew that his claws had caused mortal damage, further confirmed by the visual slouch and ultimate doubling over of Jak's body as it dropped like a bag of bricks to the floor.

Mentally kicking himself for carrying out the act, Logan had actually hesitated at the wrong time, so instead of euthanising the suffering youth, he botched the job, leaving him barely living, but much better off than the definitive alternative.

His opponent officially neutralised, from far off he heard the Baron lead his peers in a rousing round of applause, praising his ill deserved victory for their entertainment, exceedingly satisfied with how well he preformed. Great.

As all the towering room cracked a wicked smile, Logan himself was miles away, gradually piecing together the sad truth that his fate had been sealed.

And boy did the future look bleak. 


	3. Chapter 3

Tik tak tak.

Furry fingers swept across a large keyboard, prompting various charts and logs of information to pop up on display screens encompassing the diligent scientist in his own technological forest. Hank McCoy clicked on a few open windows, minimising several until he found what he was looking for.

"Eurika!" he proclaimed with joy, gripping the side of the desk and pushed himself away to spin victoriously in a circle on his chair, turning to the others and brimming with joy. "You're in luck," he said, beaming ear to ear, "I happen to have an old time-space contraption, fit enough for the job you want." Grinning, he flashed a pearly, incisor filled smile at his companions. Though fierce in appearance, 'Beast' happened to be the friendliest domesticated cat-person one could ever have the pleasure of knowing. And he was housebroken, too.

Psylocke exhaled coolly, commanding a demeanour fit for a leader stuck in similar, harrowing circumstances. Only then did she realised that she'd been holding her breath in nervous anticipation the whole time. "That's marvellous, Hank!"

Relieved to have finally heard some promising news this dark day, she relaxed a little and leaned against Angel's welcoming chest. Christened Warren Worthing III, he was Betsy's on-off boyfriend and resident feathery friend at the X-Mansion. She was extra thankful that Warren had been standing nearby, using his natural downy wings to environ her tender state with warmth and protection.

If the promising news of a possible way to follow Logan into the timestream impressed the others around her, they masked their astonishment well. Fantomex stood closest to Beast, a silent sentinel monitoring everything he was doing over his shoulder, showing more than mere amateur interest in his work. The peculiar furrow of his masked brows suggested to Betsy that the faux Frenchman was concerned about a particular detail, but she let it slide for now for fear of ruining the excitement of the moment.

Next to him sat Deadpool, perching on a cleared countertop, arms balanced on knees, his hands dangling freely between his legs. He seemed to appear very eager to let pass some whimsical remark, but for once he showed restraint and kept quiet, though such reservation was clearly beating him up inside.

"I am ever in your debt." Betsy mirrored Beast's warm smile, and moved to embrace his furry form. Warren followed her lead and offered his old friend a triumphant 'high-five.' They clapped and parted ways, Beast leaning back in his chair, moving this way and that, as Betsy and Warren returned to their previous place.

That was when Deadpool found the urge to break his vow of silence. **"So we use this **_**'wibbly wobbly, timey wimey'**_** dohickey to do what, exactly? Dial up the multiverse call centre and ask if they've seen our displaced, disgruntled doggy?" **Launching off of the ledge, he huffed and spread out his arms, feigning hopelessness. **"Who knows where that walkin' skeleton of a grandpa sent him to!"**

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Wade's right." Fantomex. "Also, given who is involved in this mess, I imagine a sustainable lead would be hard to come by."

"But that's the beauty of it," Beast intervened. "This device can also function as a tracer, a scent sniffer if you will. Simply add to it a sample, and it scours the vast and radically diverse timelines in all existence for Logan's particular scent, opening a portal to said place once it manages to get a fix on his current location."

"Hank…is that even legal?"

Warren's query about the device's present legality status was met with a cheesy, toothed smile.

"Well, I can tell that it's one-of-a-kind!" Hank let out a nervous laugh, ears twitching in that terribly feline manner upon detection of proximal audible tones. A lazy head lurched in the direction of a new query.

"How soon can you get it ready?"

Braddock had taken to filling the role made vacant by Logan's untimely absence. As went the status quo the team needed leadership, someone to draw the line, infusing constant morals to prevent unwanted deaths. Against her better judgement, she had stepped up and tasked herself with directing their shadow draped outfit. Beside, their band of macho-men could've done with a feminine touch.

Golden hues shone round with conviction as they peered above half-moon spectacles at the fledging stand-in leader.

"How soon can someone make me another coffee?"

This chapter ain't finished yet!

I must confess that I have a few chapters of this story scribbled down on paper, and I am determined to get it typed up, but, ah...as it turns out...I'm eeeaaassssillllyyyyy distracted. Go figure. xD

Please hang around for more to come! (Along with new one-shots and other stories too!)


End file.
